ST. JUDE’s day came, the term assigned by Lucy herself as the furthest date of expectation, and, as
we have already said, there were neither letters from nor news of Ravenswood. But there were news of Bucklaw, and of
his trusty associate Craigengelt, who arrived early in the morning for the completion of the proposed espousals, and
for signing the necessary deeds.

These had been carefully prepared under the revisal of Sir William Ashton himself, it having been resolved, on
account of the state of Miss Ashton’s health, as it was said, that none save the parties immediately interested should
be present when the parchments were subscribed. It was further determined that the marriage should be solemnised upon
the fourth day after signing the articles, a measure adopted by Lady Ashton, in order that Lucy might have as little
time as possible to recede or relapse into intractability. There was no appearance, however, of her doing either. She
heard the proposed arrangement with the calm indifference of despair, or rather with an apathy arising from the
oppressed and stupified state of her feelings. To an eye so unobserving as that of Bucklaw, her demeanour had little
more of reluctance than might suit the character of a bashful young lady, who, however, he could not disguise from
himself, was complying with the choice of her friends rather than exercising any personal predilection in his
favour.

When the morning compliment of the bridegroom had been paid, Miss Ashton was left for some time to herself; her
mother remarking, that the deeds must be signed before the hour of noon, in order that the marriage might be happy.
Lucy suffered herself to be attired for the occasion as the taste of her attendants suggested, and was of course
splendidly arrayed. Her dress was composed of white satin and Brussels lace, and her hair arranged with a profusion of
jewels, whose lustre made a strange contrast to the deadly paleness of her complexion, and to the trouble which dwelt
in her unsettled eye.

Her toilette was hardly finished ere Henry appeared, to conduct the passive bride to the state apartment, where all
was prepared for signing the contract. “Do you know, sister,” he said, “I am glad you are to have Bucklaw after all,
instead of Ravenswood, who looked like a Spanish grandee come to cute our throats and trample our bodies under foot.
And I am glad the broad seas are between us this day, for I shall never forget how frightened I was when I took him for
the picture of old Sir Malise walked out of the canvas. Tell me true, are you not glad to be fairly shot of him?”

“Ask me no questions, dear Henry,” said his unfortunate sister; “there is little more can happen to make me either
glad or sorry in this world.”

“And that’s what all young brides say,” said Henry; “and so do not be cast down, Lucy, for you’ll tell another tale
a twelvemonth hence; and I am to be bride’s-man, and ride before you to the kirk; and all our kith, kin, and allies,
and all Bucklaw’s, are to be mounted and in order; and I am to have a scarlet laced coat, and a feathered hat, and a
swordbelt, double bordered with gold, and point d’Espagne, and a dagger instead of a sword; and I should like a sword
much better, but my father won’t hear of it. All my things, and a hundred besides, are to come out from Edinburgh
to-night with old Gilbert and the sumpter mules; and I will bring them and show them to you the instant they come.”

The boy’s chatter was here interrupted by the arrival of Lady Ashton, somewhat alarmed at her daughter’s stay. With
one of her sweetest smiles, she took Lucy’s arm under her own.

There were only present, Sir William Ashton and Colonel Douglas Ashton, the last in full regimentals; Bucklaw, in
bridegroom trim; Craigengelt, freshly equipt from top to toe by the bounty of his patron, and bedizened with as much
lace as might have become the dress of the Copper Captain; together with the Rev. Mr. Bide-the-Bent; the presence of a
minister being, in strict Presbyterian families, an indispensable requisite upon all occasions of unusual
solemnity.

Wines and refreshments were placed on a table, on which the writings were displayed, ready for signature.

But before proceeding either to business or refreshment, Mr. Bide-the-Bent, at a signal from Sir William Ashton,
invited the company to join him in a short extemporary prayer, in which he implored a blessing upon the contract now to
be solemnised between the honourable parties then present. With the simplicity of his times and profession, which
permitted strong personal allusions, he petitioned that the wounded mind of one of these noble parties might be healed,
in reward of her compliance with the advice of her right honourable parents; and that, as she had proved herself a
child after God’s commandment, by honouring her father and mother, she and hers might enjoy the promised blessing —
length of days in the land here, and a happy portion hereafter in a better country. He prayed farther, that the
bridegroom might be weaned from those follies which seduced youth from the path of knowledge; that he might cease to
take delight in vain and unprofitable company, scoffers, rioters, and those who sit late at the wine (here Bucklaw
winked at Craigengelt), and cease from the society that causeth to err. A suitable supplication in behalf of Sir
William and Lady Ashton and their family concluded this religious address, which thus embraced every individual present
excepting Craigengelt, whom the worthy divine probably considered as past all hopes of grace.

The business of the day now went forward: Sir William Ashton signed the contract with legal solemnity and precision;
his son, with military nonchalance; and Bucklaw, having subscribed as rapidly as Craigengelt could manage to turn the
leaves, concluded by wiping his pen on that worthy’s new laced cravat. It was now Miss Ashton’s turn to sign the
writings, and she was guided by her watchful mother to the table for that purpose. At her first attempt, she began to
write with a dry pen, and when the circumstance was pointed out, seemed unable, after several attempts, to dip it in
the massive silver ink-standish, which stood full before her. Lady Ashton’s vigilance hastened to supply the
deficiency. I have myself seen the fatal deed, and in the distinct characters in which the name of Lucy Ashton is
traced on each page there is only a very slight tremulous irregularity, indicative of her state of mind at the time of
the subscription. But the last signature is incomplete, defaced, and blotted; for, while her hand was employed in
tracing it, the hasty tramp of a horse was heard at the gate, succeeded by a step in the outer gallery, and a voice
which, in a commanding tone, bore down the opposition of the menials. The pen dropped from Lucy’s fingers, as she
exclaimed with a faint shriek: “He is come — he is come!”